


strange as angels

by astudyinrose



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Just Like Heaven (2005) Fusion, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Magical Realism, Major Character Injury, apparent major character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2021-01-05 21:56:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21215690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinrose/pseuds/astudyinrose
Summary: Yuuri is competing in the Grand Prix series when he has a traumatic fall, and he's absent from the rest of the series. The next spring, Victor wins his fifth straight title at Worlds and he feels strangely despondent, so he decides to leave St. Petersburg. He buys the first flight out of the airport, which happens to be to Detroit. Once there, he finds a furnished apartment, and he and Makkachin start to settle in, though he's starting to wonder what he's doing there.The first night, he's haunted by the ghost of a beautiful Japanese man he's never met before.





	strange as angels

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Just Like Heaven AU. If you have any questions about the plot or apparent major character death, just google the movie :)
> 
> Thanks so much to Laura for her intrepid beta-ing!
> 
> The beautiful collab art below is by [bullsfish](<a%20href=)!!

"And now, representing Japan, Katsuki Yuuri!” a voice boomed over the loudspeakers.

Yuuri tucked his head into his chest, blowing his air out in one long breath. He paused, letting himself have one last moment of peace out of the public eye, then he walked out into the arena as the crowd erupted into cheers.

Composing his face into a placid grin, Yuuri waved at the crowd. The arena boomed with another round of applause, dozens of Japanese flags waving and lights flashing from every angle.

He unzipped his jacket and stepped out onto the ice, taking one last sip of his water and handing the bottle to Celestino.

Closing his eyes, Yuuri placed his palms flat on the boards, breathing in and out, trying to focus. It was always exhilarating to be in front of the home crowd, but it also kicked his anxiety into high gear.

The crowd started chanting his name. “Yuu-ri! Yuu-ri!”

Yuuri squeezed his eyes shut, but try as he might, he couldn’t block out the sound.

He felt Celestino’s hands on his shoulders. “You can do this, Yuuri. You can make it to the Final this year. I know you can.”

Yuuri sighed, opening his eyes. Celestino gave him a smile, squeezing Yuuri’s shoulders. “_Non ti preoccupare_. Go out and win for your fans.”

Yuuri pressed his lips together and forced himself to nod once, quickly. He couldn’t help but wonder if...he was watching. The one man he wanted to impress. The one person he’d always admired.

Hundreds of flash bulbs blinded him as he skated out to another rapturous cheer from the crowd. Yuuri skated around, rolling his shoulders, before he came to a stop at center ice, trying to put the thousands of faces, the thousands of pairs of eyes in the back of his mind.

As he froze in his starting pose, a curtain of silence fell over the arena, the fans holding their breath as the music began.

He looked upward, swanning his arms outward as the strings crescendoed.

The opening step sequence was difficult, but he had no trouble flitting through the moves, and the audience cheered at a particularly difficult part.

The first jump was a triple axle. He swept through the steps leading into it without hesitation, but then at the last second, he balked. He skidded, his hand touching down on the landing.

The crowd cheered, but it was a little less vociferous than before.

Gritting his teeth, Yuuri swept into the camel combo spin, tucking his hands behind his back. The arena became a blur. There was more applause as he pulled out of the spin, which was no surprise; it was one of his best moves.

Next was the quad flip. He’d landed it in practice enough times, but in that morning’s warmups he’d popped it three times in a row.

As he prepared to launch into the jump, a sharp spike of anxiety punched through his chest.

He took a deep breath, and launched into the jump…but he knew from the second his edge left the ice that something was very, _very_ wrong.

He tried to pop out of the jump, but it was already too late, and he couldn’t spread his arms fast enough to break the fall.

The last thing Yuuri remembered was a collective gasp from the crowd, right before everything went black.

* * *

{Five months later…}

Victor sighed, wishing for the umpteenth time that he could be somewhere else—anywhere else.

The press wrangler put her hand to her ear piece, and nodded. “Okay. Please go up gentlemen,” she said. Victor closed his eyes and took a deep breath, threw on his best media smile and followed Chris and Otabek up to the dias amid dozens of flashing lights.

They posed for a few photos together, Victor’s jaw tightening with every passing second, but he made sure to keep his smile bright.

Finally, the photo op was over and the real gauntlet began.

Victor had barely sat down before a reporter shouted, “Mr. Nikiforov, now that you have won your fifth world title, where do you go from here?”

Victor fought the urge to grimace. It was always the same. Always the same inane questions about his process, the same strange interest in his private life. It never ended.

He prepared to choke out the usual bland, noncommittal answer about how he kept his competitive edge, about how grateful he was to be at the top once again; that he never took a win for granted.

But as he parted his lips, he realized...he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t lie this time.

Victor cleared his throat and forced a smile, not sure what he was going to say until the words left his mouth.

“I don’t know.”

A flat silence filled the room, followed immediately by an intense buzzing. The reporters all started muttering to each other, their expressions of confusion making the bile rise in Victor’s throat.

“What do you mean, you don’t know?” a French reporter called out over the fracas.

Victor gritted his teeth, glancing at Yakov, who was standing by the door.

Too late now, he thought, shrugging. His longtime coach’s jaw clenched.

Victor turned his attention back to the reporter. “I’m not sure that I will be competing next year,” he said.

Bedlam. Every single reporter started shouting at once:

“Why wouldn’t you compete?”

“Are you retiring?”

“What will you be doing instead?”

“Victor, why did you make this decision?”

“Are you injured?”

“Have you peaked? Are you losing your competitive edge?”

The press wrangler, brow knitted, called out, “One at a time, please, ladies and gentlemen, please, wait for Mr. Nikiforov to respond.”

It took another minute for the room to quiet enough for Victor to speak.

“I’m taking one year off at least. I’m not sure if I will return to competing,” Victor said firmly, ignoring his coach’s dirty look. “I feel a lack of inspiration. I think I need to take some time to find it again.”

A short blonde reporter shouted out, “Why do you think you lack inspiration? Some critics have lauded your _Stammi Vicino_ routine as one of the greatest in history.”

Victor’s stomach dropped. He didn’t have an answer to that. At least, not one that he could tell to the international press.

“I have a plane to catch,” Victor said, standing up abruptly. The other two athletes blinked up at him in surprise; he never left a press conference early.

“Thanks for your support,” he muttered.

Hunching his shoulders, he slunk off the stage amid the stunned whispers of the press corps.

* * *

That night, Victor tiredly opened the door to his flat. Makkachin immediately jumped him, paws on his chest and licked Victor’s face a couple of times.

“Hey, how’s my girl?” he crooned, petting her head.

Makkachin barked, dropping down to all fours. Victor knelt, ignoring the ache in his joints as he did so, and ruffled her fur.

“There’s my good girl, yes you are, I missed you.”

Makkachin yipped, licking his hands jovially.

“Papa won again, did you know that?” Victor said. He swallowed down the burning in the back of his throat, but it only intensified.

He ducked his head, shuddering. Makkachin licked the tears off his cheek, wagging her tail, and Victor sniffled, chuckling a little.

“Yeah. Papa won.”

* * *

The next morning dawned bright and cheery.

After walking and feeding Makkachin, Victor drew the blinds, climbed back in bed and pulled the covers over his head. He stared at the wall for at least an hour before he drifted off to sleep again. When he finally woke up, he watched the afternoon sunlight chase itself across his ceiling.

His phone buzzed on his bedside table. A little while later, it buzzed again. And again.

Victor sighed, rolling over to pick it up. There were texts from his rinkmates, from friends around the world congratulating him on yet another gold. There were also several from Yakov, asking when he’d be back at the rink.

Victor tossed the phone back onto the table, throwing his arm over his eyes.

What’s the point?

A sharp pain lodged in his throat as the thought crossed his mind, and he tried to swallow it down.

_I should eat something_, he thought, but he couldn’t find the will to move.

He felt Makkachin jump up and settle at his feet before he fell back asleep.

* * *

A few days later, there were three sharp knocks on the door.

Victor had been napping on his couch, wrapped in his comforter. He groaned, turning over to face the cushions, his nose touching the rich fabric of the cushion.

Another sharp three knocks.

Victor sighed. Yakov had a key, so he could let himself in if he was that desperate.

Sure enough, after another minute, the lock clicked and the door swung open, heavy boots thumping sharply over the wood floor to his couch.

“Victor, what the fuck.”

“Hi Yakov,” Victor said gloomily. He could tell that Yakov was glaring at his back, but he didn’t turn over.

“You haven’t been at practice at all this week.”

Victor snorted. “Didn’t you know? I’m the five-time World Champion, and it’s the off season. I deserve a break.”

“The Victor I know is always back in the rink the day after a major competition, already starting to choreograph his routines for the next season.”

“Maybe I’m not the Victor you know anymore.”

There was a long pause.

“You have to get out of this flat, Victor.” Yakov’s voice was almost pleading.

“Why?” Victor wasn’t being contrary; not completely, anyway. He actually didn’t know the answer to the question.

Yakov moved over to the couch and pulled Victor over so that he was no longer facing the back of the couch.

“Because you’re being dramatic.”

Victor just closed his eyes. Dramatic he may be, but this was different than normal post-season blues. He’d been fighting the feeling all winter, but now there was no denying it. A black cloud had settled over him and he could no longer fight it off.

It was almost as if a part of him had died.

“At least go for a walk,” Yakov pressed. “Get some fresh air. Go see your friends?”

“I don’t have friends,” Victor said. “Not _real_ ones, anyway,” he muttered under his breath.

“You can’t just sit in here for the rest of your life.”

Victor clenched his teeth. _Watch me._

Eventually, Yakov sighed, standing up again.

“If I don’t hear from you for three more days, I’m sending in the cavalry.”

The door clicked shut behind him, and Victor closed his eyes.

* * *

He dreamed of an ocean: vast, glittering, bright. He stood on an empty, unfamiliar beach. Seagulls were gliding overhead, like in St. Petersburg, but he somehow knew that it wasn’t Russia. No, this place was far, far away.

There was no one else in either direction.No one, except for a man with dark hair, facing the sea, his bare feet in the surf.

The man didn’t seem to notice Victor, even as Victor walked toward him, drawn by some kind of invisible force.

The seagulls swept overhead, the salt sprayed his face as he walked up behind the man.

“Who are you?” Victor asked, his voice seeming loud in his own ears.

The man turned around, and his eyes...they were the most beautiful, deep brown that Victor had ever seen.

“Victor,” the man whispered, his hair ruffling in the sea breeze. The man smiled, and Victor’s heart swelled.

Victor woke with a jolt. He sat up, pressing his face into his palms.

“What the fuck,” he muttered, shuddering.

He had never felt something like this before: a deep, bone-deep sensation of loss, of grief so potent that he wanted to sob into his pillow for days.

Sniffling, Victor wiped his eyes and stood up, unsure what to do, but he knew for certain that he couldn’t go back to sleep.

He padded into the kitchen and got a glass of water, leaning against the counter and staring out at the city lights, the streets covered in a light layer of snow. He tried to forget the dream, to shake it off, but it was as if the vision of the man was imprinted on his retinas.

He suddenly had a desire to be...not...here. He had no idea where to go, where he was meant to be, but somehow he knew that St. Petersburg was not it.

The man’s smile flashed before him again. Victor squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head, but that didn’t erase the image.

He looked out at the city he had called home for more than a decade, and came to a decision.

* * *

After showering, Victor packed two suitcases (one of which mostly consisted of Makkachin’s dog bowl and toys) and left for the airport as a grey April morning dawned over St. Petersburg. Makkachin barked as he loaded her into the waiting taxi, wagging her tail in her crate; she always loved going on trips.

Because of the early hour, few kiosks were open at the airport; Victor chose an airline at random.

He walked directly to a tired-looking man at the international counter, typing at a rate of at least a hundred words per minute.

“Checking in?” the man asked without glancing up.

“Actually, I need to buy a ticket.”

The man glanced up briefly. “Spontaneous vacation, is it?”

Victor f;ashed his media grin without thinking. “Something like that. I would like a one-way ticket on whatever international flight is leaving next.”

The man stopped typing, his eyes flicking up to meet Victor’s, before he looked down at his screen again. “Are you sure about that?”

“Yes.” Victor took his wallet out of his back pocket and slid his black card over the counter. “First class, please.”

The man’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline as he picked the card up from the counter. “You don’t care what the destination is?”

“Surprise me.”

Makkachin barked in her crate, to remind him of her presence.

“Oh, and passage for my dog,” Victor added.

The man squinted, tilting his head to the side.

“Aren’t you that...figure skating bloke?” he asked, still nonchalant and disinterested as he swept the card through a reader.

Victor felt his smile turn forced. “I used to be,” he said.

* * *

When Victor looked at his ticket and then up at the Departures screen, a sudden panic rushed through his system. With every fiber of his being, he longed to go back to the smug man in the polyester suit and ask him to exchange the ticket for some other place, somewhere warm, perhaps. Ibiza would be lovely this time of year.

It wasn’t that he had anything against Detroit; he’d been there a few times over the years for competitions, after all. But of all places in the entire world to end up, the rusting city seemed a bit bleak.

And yet.

For some reason, he didn’t go back to the ticket counter. Instead, he went to his designated gate, waited, and boarded the plane with a lot of sleep-deprived-looking fellow passengers.

As he settled into his plush first class seat, sipping a mimosa, and looked out the window. The plane pulled up through a bank of clouds, and as far as Victor could see, there was a carpet of pure white below and blue above, the sun just cresting over the clouds, bathing everything in gold.

A strange calm fell over him. And eventually, he fell into the most sound sleep he’d had in over three months.

* * *

“You did WHAT?” Yakov screamed.

Victor winced, thumbing down the volume and sticking his phone between his shoulder and his ear as he unlocked Makkachin’s crate and let her out. The dog immediately barked and jumped up onto the king sized bed, then zoomed around the hotel suite, sniffing everything.

“I said, I moved to...er.” Victor cleared his throat. “Detroit.”

“Detroit? What were you thinking? Is this one of your manic phases that will burn out in ten days? What is going on in your head? I don’t understand you—”

Victor sighed, putting the phone down as he wrestled Makkachin’s leash out of the side pocket of his suitcase.

“C’mon, Makka, let’s go for a walk,” he said. Makkachin yipped, bouncing over to the door, wagging her tail.

When he picked up the phone again, Yakov was still yelling. “—irresponsible, bigheaded, selfish, you still have a career to think of, let alone that you’re supposed to be helping me prepare Yuri for his senior level debut, do you even care about that? And not to mention the fact that your sponsors are going to drop you faster than a _hot piroshki_—”

“I have to go, I have to take Makka for a walk,” Victor interrupted quickly, and before he could lose his nerve, he hung up the phone and dropped it on the bed.

Makkachin barked, bouncing around him excitedly as he clipped her collar onto her leash.

“Yes, yes, girl, let’s go,” Victor cooed, grabbing his key card and gloves as she pulled him out the door and down the hall to the elevator.

Detroit was cold. Cold and dark, even though it was nearing spring. It wasn’t that different from Russia, really.

Victor sighed, pulling up the collar of his coat as they walked aimlessly. Makkachin did her business, but he didn’t want to go back to the hotel yet, instead wandering down street after street.

As they turned a corner, a delicious smell wafted through the air of roasted meat and garlic. Victor followed his nose and eventually they came upon a little shawarma shop. He bought himself a small dinner—though he gave a healthy portion to Makkachin—and sat down at a small table by the window, looking out at the growing dark.

Makkachin finished up her bit of meat and sighed, sitting down on the floor beside him. He ruffled the fur on the back of her head, scratching behind her ears.

“What are we doing here, girl?” Victor sighed, looking up at the fading light to the west, the naked tree branches reaching upward toward the cloudy sky.

* * *

Victor’s boxes arrived late the next afternoon, but he had nowhere to put them. He crammed them into the corner in his suite’s living room, a sour tinge of regret pooling in his stomach. He had moved to a country he had only visited a few times, and a city in particular he essentially knew nothing about. The initial, glittering—and if he was being honest with himself, vaguely manic—desire to go somewhere, anywhere, had faded, and in its place was the cold, harsh light of reality. He had nowhere to live.

Yakov’s rebukes rang in his ears. _What were you thinking?_

Victor sighed, taking out a bottle of Bordeaux he had bought that morning and poured himself a glass, then booted up his computer, before he realized he had absolutely no idea how Americans find apartments.

Biting his bottom lip, he opened a search engine and typed, hesitantly, “Apartments + Detroit.”

There were so many hits and websites his head spun, but he took a deep breath and clicked one, starting to peruse.

An hour and a half later, he flipped the screen shut and threw his computer onto the couch cushion. He sunk his hands into his hair, bowing his head in frustration. He knew next to nothing about this city, lor what neighborhood he should look in. He would probably just have to go the long route and hire a realtor or something.

Makkachin took advantage of his momentary distraction to pull her leash from its spot on a chair and trot over to him, tail wagging.

“You trying to tell me something?” Victor mumbled. Her tail wagged more vociferously.

Victor sighed, standing up to pull on a beanie and some gloves, draining the rest of his wine as he slipped his phone in his back pocket. He clipped the leash to Makkachin’s collar.

As he stepped out into the early evening air, he was still trying to quell the feeling that had made a huge mistake coming to Detroit. He couldn’t fathom limping back to St. Petersburg with his tail between his legs after only two days.

No, he had to stick it out at least...a week. Two weeks, even.

A blast of cold wind shook the bare arms of the trees overhead, and Victor pulled his coat more snugly around him.

He wandered aimlessly up and down streets as the sun faded.

A well-fed squirrel ran down a tree right in front of them, and Makkachin immediately wrenched the leash out of Victor’s grip and took off down the street after it, barking. She chased it around the corner and up another street.

“Makka!” Victor yelled. “Makka, wait, _stop_!” He ran after her, but she was fast, especially for an older dog.

He turned the corner just in time to see Makkachin running down at the end of the block.

“Makkachin, bad girl!” Victor called out. The squirrel ran up another tree, and Victor was about to breathe a sigh of relief, but the dog simply kept running past the tree—after what, he had no idea.

“Makka, you are not going to have any of your special treats for _a very long time_ if you don’t stop this _right now_—” Victor screamed.

He turned the corner again and Makkachin was sitting placidly on the first step of a walk-up townhome, tongue lagging.

“What the—” Victor doubled over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. He may be the five-time world champion in figure skating, but his own dog could apparently smoke him in a hundred-meter dash.

When he had caught his breath, Victor slowly straightened. “Maybe...you should...take it easy on me, Makka. I’m not as young as I used to be.”

Makkachin yipped again, and just as he was about to grab the handle of her leash, she bounded up the stairs to the front door.

“Dermo,” Victor swore, running up the steps after her.

A young man pushed open the door with his back at the same time, and they collided magnificently into each other, the box in the man’s hands flying from his grip. The box fell on its side, its contents scattering all over the stoop.

The man gasped, immediately going to his knees and starting to scoop up the items.

He looked like he was of Southeast Asian origin—Thai, perhaps—his shoulders slumped, his eyes were red.

“Do you...do you need help?” Victor knelt to help him pick up the random assortment of articles—a scarf, a pair of skate guards, a picture frame—

“No, thanks,” the man snapped, carefully placing the items back in his box and standing quickly, sniffling a little as he walked down the steps to a waiting car. He placed the box carefully in the back, and the vehicle whisked off.

“Weird,” Victor muttered, standing up straight again.

But then he saw the sign by the door: FOR RENT. And a phone number beneath.

He glanced down the street again. There were people out walking their dogs, lights in the windows. The smell of home cooking wafted from an open window. It felt like somewhere he could see himself living.

Victor stared at the sign for a couple of seconds before he pulled out his phone, realizing that he had made the decision as soon as he’d seen it.

It took him a couple of tries, but the phone finally clicked and a cigarette-rasp voice ground out, “What?”

“I, uh,” Victor stuttered, taken off guard. “I’m—”

“What do you want?” The woman snapped.

“Is this…” Victor gulped, trying to remember how to speak English properly, glancing again at the sign. “Annette Stanley?”

“Obviously,” the woman croaked.

“Uh. I’m in front of your rental property on, um, Prince street?”

“What about it?”

Victor frowned. Were all Americans this rude? Or just people from Detroit?

He tried to sound amiable. “I’d like to see the apartment if possible. I’m interested in renting it.”

“It’s too expensive for you.”

Caught off guard once again, Victor cleared his throat. “Uh, I doubt it?”

“Really.” She sounded dubious.

“Uh, yeah?” Little did she know that he was the highest-paid athlete in the world. But he wasn’t going to say that over the phone.

“Fine, I’ll be there soon.” There was a click and then a dial tone.

“Oh...kay…” Victor said, pocketing his phone and sitting down on the stoop next to Makkachin.

“Well girl, I’d say there’s a ninety percent chance this lady doesn’t show.”

Makkachin panted, her tongue lolling, seemingly unperturbed. She sat down next to him, watching the street expectantly.

Victor scratched behind her ear. “Is there something you know that I don’t know?”

She just continued to smile her doggy smile, her tongue lagging. Ten minutes went by, then twenty.

As the last of the sun faded and darkness started to set in, an old silver Taurus drove slowly up the street and parallel parked a few spaces down from the apartment.

A woman with a frizzy perm got out, her lipstick smeared a bit, a large cup of coffee in one hand despite the late hour, phone in the other.

Victor stood up, but she barely looked at him as she texted furiously.

“You the guy?” She didn’t wait for an answer, brushing by him and punching in the code to the lock box.

“Uh. Yes, I’m Victor. You’re Annette, I assume?”

The woman rolled her eyes, which Victor supposed was the answer to his question.

“The previous tenant just moved out, so it might not be clean,” the woman—Annette—said brusquely, opening the door.

“That’s, um, fine,” Victor said, still thrown off by her perfunctory manner.

Annette led him up to the second floor, and she unlocked the door to the apartment. She took a big swig of her coffee and gestured inside. “Here yuh go.”

Victor stepped into the small foyer and was immediately greeted with the sight of a floor length built in mirror with crown molding, an old style that he was surprised to find in its original condition, especially someplace like this.

They walked down the hall to the living room. Annette immediately sat on the kitchen counter and started texting with both hands, apparently completely disinterested in actually showing him around the place.

The house was comfortably furnished, though not exactly in Victor’s style; his flat in St. Petersburg was more sleek and minimalist, all of his furniture and most of his dishware having been ordered online from the same catalog.

Here, though, it looked like the furnishings had been a hodgepodge of garage sale buys and hand-me-downs, but the eclectic nature of it all somehow worked. The kitchen area wasn’t huge, but sizeable enough for an apartment. The back wall behind the couch was exposed brick, and there was a large bay window overlooking the street.

The apartment was...well, homey. Though all of the personal items had clearly been cleared away, but there were other small reminders that this was someone’s home, and they had left their imprints on the place in small ways. There were mismatched throw cushions on the couch, one of which had what looked like Japanese kanji on it, the other with the nearby university’s insignia; the plant in the window looked like it had been well cared for. A scorch mark marred the coffee table.

Victor wandered past the kitchen to the two bedrooms. In one of them, there was a simple desk and a queen bed. Victor sat down on the bare mattress, looking around, wondering if he could imagine waking up every morning to the sight of these four walls. What was particularly strange, though, was the empty squares on the walls where posters had once been tacked or taped up.

Victor touched the edge of one of the squares. It was strange, like seeing the ghost of a person, the imprints they had left behind.

After a bit, he walked back into the living room, taking it all in. Something on the wall near the window caught his eye: it looked like chalk that had recently been cleaned off. Victor walked over to the wall and squinted, trying to make out the words. There was a chart, with two names on top and some kind of scoring system underneath, like a game. The first name looked like ‘Phichit,’ but the other name was too smeared to read. Victor touched the stone where the other name had been, and...there it was again, that strange grief from his dream.

Even though he had never been there before, something about this place gave him a surge of joy, but also a shadow of pain. It was unbelievably strange.

Am I losing it? he wondered.

“It’s twenty two hundred a month, month to month sublease, and they can decide to break at the first of every month,” Annette recited from her perch. “I’m not sure why they think they could even get half that considering the terms, but they were very specific about their requirements—“

“I’ll take it,” Victor said in a rush, his fingers still touching the shadowed name.

Annette blinked at him once, then again, as if stunned. “You realize you could rent an apartment on the same street for half as much, right? There’s a reason why this hasn’t been picked up yet. And it has to be furnished. You can’t bring any of your own things.”

“I don’t care,” Victor said. “I want this one.”

She gave him a long look, then shrugged. “Your funeral,” she said, punching a number into her phone.


End file.
